Chapter 2 - Ewan Crane’s Seventh Life

Ewan did not understand why he was so unsettled by the thought that followed: Why did Davy Jones not take me, as well?

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Ewan Crane had been a sailor for twelve years. Such a profession could put great strain on a man’s body. Even after his six close brushes with death, he had never known pain so great as that which he felt when he came to the seventh time.

The Dutchman was the first thing to cross his waking mind.

My friends have been taken by Davy Jones. That, alone, was a dark thought. He did not understand why he was so unsettled by the thought that followed: Why did Davy Jones not take me, as well?

“Finn.” The name of his closest friend slipped from his tired lips; he made the sound without thinking, voicing residual panic from his time floating alone in the water. “Finn. Horace…”

The voice that replied belonged to neither Finn nor Horace:

“Sir?”

Ewan’s eyes snapped open. A lad sat beside him, sandy hair unkempt. His eyes were surrounded by shadows that hinted at lack of sleep. A scar on his left cheek indicated a recent accident, but he leaned forward and focused his attention on Ewan.

“We wondered when you’d wake up. You washed up ashore on the beach, where I found you.”

In that moment, pain flared in all of Ewan’s muscles, causing him to inhale with pain as he shut his eyes against reality.

He knew that he ought to be grateful. While he had surrendered his seventh life to the sea, it did not seem to have been claimed. He was not on a ship, but in a dim infirmary, where he could smell sickness and hear the muffled sounds of patients in adjoining rooms.

“How long have I been here?” Ewan asked.

An ache in his belly alerted him that he hadn’t had a good meal since before the accident on the Mary Louise. He wondered, with a sinking heart, if the ship had made it to the bottom of the ocean. She had been a noble ship; he was grateful for the time that he had been part of her crew.

“Two days, sir, unconscious, sir.” The young man’s voice had not yet broken, but something in his brown eyes hinted at a greater maturity than his tone would suggest. This lad had seen pain in his short years of life; Ewan recognized a kindred spirit when he saw one. “It’s a marvel you’re alive, the physician said. He expected you would have passed on, each time he came to check on you. The nurses, too.”

Ewan wished that he could muster a smile for the sake of the boy. There was a heaviness in him that he could not describe. He needed time alone to sort through his emotions.

If this was the young man who had pulled him from the water, the least that he deserved were words of thanks.

“What’s your name, lad?” asked Ewan gruffly, wiping a sheen of sweat off of his forehead.

“Daniel,” he replied. Then, as if to explain his presence, he added with haste: “Mum’s a nurse.”

“Do you have hopes of pursuing that work, yourself?”

Ewan propped himself up against the thin, stiff mattress, forcing his protesting muscles into movement. He would prefer to be sitting upright when speaking with Daniel, preserving what remained of his dignity.

“No,” said Daniel. “Would you like something to eat? I’m afraid there’s not much to offer you, aside from watery oatmeal.”

Ewan smiled and replied, “I’ll take my chances with the oatmeal, thanks. I hope that I can hold it in.”

Daniel reached for a bucket and handed it to Ewan, his wordless smile speaking for itself: In case you cannot hold it in.

Ewan could not help but return the smile. “If you find a periodical,” he called after Daniel, “would you mind bringing it to me?”

“Certainly.”

Daniel vanished into the corridor, leaving Ewan alone with his thoughts and his aching body.

Ewan closed his eyes.

The Flying Dutchman took my friends, he thought, gripping the threadbare blanket in his fist as he attempted to make sense of what had happened out there in the sea.

He had resigned himself to the fact that his life would end, there in the wake of Davy Jones’s rejection. Why had he not been swallowed by the ocean, given the privilege of resting his bones near the Mary Louise?

Any other person would have thought it a blessing that he had been rescued; Ewan found no peace in the fact. He felt no peace, only rejection…which made no sense. He had been allowed to live. Was that not a good thing?

He thought about his friends, Finn and James and Horace, and found that the memory of them only brought him more disquiet. If his suspicions were correct and Davy Jones had taken them, he did not reckon they were being tended to with bandages like him. The Dutchman was dreaded by sailors for a reason, and he found himself wishing that his friends had died honorable deaths at sea rather than being forcefully ‘recruited’ by a man who was feared universally.

If he is feared universally, thought Ewan, then why does it sting so much that he overlooked me in the water?

He was soon joined once more by Daniel. The lad carried a tray with a bowl and a cup of tea. There was also a stack of articles on the tray. These he handed to Ewan, who accepted them with gratitude.

Skimming the headlines, it did not take long for him to work out where he was. “This is a fishing village,” he said to Daniel. “Is it called Grey Point?”

“Aye, sir,” Daniel replied. “I’ll leave you to your porridge, but feel free to call if you need anything. I’ll be about.”

“Thank you, Daniel.” Ewan shook his head at his own poor fortune. “If I had a dime on me, I would tip you for your kindness.”

With that, Daniel turned and sauntered out of the room, leaving Ewan with his periodicals and a sunken heart.

He sifted through the articles, found one about a garden party at Buckingham Palace, and began to read. He did not normally care for such things, but they might take his mind off of the sting of rejection.

It would take much more, though, for him to forget that he had been left behind. It should not hurt so much, and yet, the ache was profound.

Why had the Flying Dutchman left him behind?